


9. Death

by Iolre



Series: 100 Themes Challenge [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John loses a patient he thought was going to beat the odds, he’s forced to realize he’s ultimately human. Set post-Reichenbach by a year and a half.</p>
            </blockquote>





	9. Death

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry guys. Dreig's been on vacation and I'm down with pneumonia. Hoping to get into at least one a week soon!

John shifted his weight from one foot to another, his deep blue eyes focused on Sherlock’s lithe form not too far from him. The taller man was bent over the bloody body on the floor, his small, hand-held magnifying glass whirling with his hands as he examined and deduced. Although the scene never failed to intrigue John, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander. Pulling his mobile out of his pocket, he checked for messages and frowned when he saw there was nothing new.

Doctors were not supposed to get attached to their patients, as a rule. As with all rules, there were exceptions. Eric was one such exception. A brilliant young man - admittedly, not on Sherlock’s level, but who was - he had been born with a heart defect that had required monthly checkups in the years since it had been surgically fixed. Although it had not drastically affected his life, it required careful monitoring for future problems and was likely to shorten his overall lifespan. When he had come in for his monthly check up just a few days ago, John had felt an abnormal mass during his palpitation and had referred him for more tests. Discovering an abnormally low level of oxygen-transporting red blood cells, John had immediately referred Eric to the local hospital for blood transfusions and further testing. He had not said it out loud, but John had suspected that Eric was bleeding into his abdomen somehow. His NHS doctor, someone John had worked with long ago, had promised to keep John updated. As John had seen him every month for several years now, he knew far more than the doctors at the hospital would.

John flipped back through his message inbox, his eyes grave. There was the message from John’s colleague, sent only fifteen minutes prior.

“Stomach cancer. Stage IV. Terminal. Six months left, tops.”

His stomach twisted in pity and he slid the mobile back in his pocket. He had texted back, asking for the tests to be done again, for confirmation. Eric had beaten so many obstacles. To succuumb to cancer would not only be ironic, but devastating to his loyal family that had stood by him throughout his many health battles.

“John?” John started, forcing his eyes to focus again as he looked up to find Sherlock had taken a step closer to him. The man’s piercing blue eyes were narrowed slightly. John could guess that it was not the first time that his name had been called, as even Lestrade was staring at him with a slight amount of concern.

Shoving his emotions aside like a good doctor, he smiled his normal smile. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?” Lestrade asked, taking a step closer. Sherlock looked John up and down and, apparently satisfied that John was indeed okay, returned to his examination of the body.

“I’m fine, yes.” John smiled affably. “Just a bit tired. Had to keep up with that one and all.” Lestrade stared at him a bit more before turning his gaze back to Sherlock, who had settled down into a crouch and was staring fixedly at the deep gashes in the woman’s stomach.

Abruptedly[,] Sherlock straightened. “You’re looking for a lover. Probably someone who worked at the hospital, had some knowledge of anatomy, as the gashes are rather deep and appear to be made using some kind of surgical implement.” He peered briefly at the body and then shrugged. “Boring. Mid-thirties, some kind of businessman, and he owns two cats.”

Before Lestrade could speak, John’s phone rang. Glancing down at the number, he immediately pulled out his mobile and walked away from the scene - away from Sherlock. “Hello?” he asked breathlessly.

“John? It’s Aaron Meo, Eric’s oncologist.”

“Did you do the tests?” John stopped where he was standing. If Sherlock was done, he might be able to swing by and visit Eric a bit by himself before having to return home to Baker Street to his cranky boyfriend. If this case was the best Lestrade could do, John was in serious trouble.

“I’m actually calling for another reason,” the doctor responded regretfully. John felt his stomach clench tightly. “Look, Eric hasn’t contacted you or anything, has he?”

“No - why? What happened?” John gripped his mobile tighter, his knuckles white. His brow was furrowed and he could feel Sherlock at the edge of his senses. Pointedly he took a few steps farther away, his body hunching in on itself.

“He stole one of the nurse’s mobiles and disappeared, about five minutes ago. Security footage is still being checked, but due to his condition, we doubt he left the building.” Dr. Meo’s voice was hitched with just a bit of worry, and it was enough to worry John.

“Did you tell him what the tests had said?” John’s free hand was starting to unconsciously rub his forehead and he leaned against the wall for more support. His mind was racing rapidly. If they were lucky, Eric had merely snuck off for some solitude away from the medical professionals. He didn’t want to think about what had happened if they were unlucky.

“Yes, not too long after I texted you. He seemed to take it pretty well.” Dr. Meo’s voice was faintly surprised. John’s heart stumbled, surging as the adrenaline sent images flashing before his eyes. Eric’s changed demeanor, the last time they had talked. The brief joke about what would happen if it turned out to be bad. All clear danger signs, but things John had ignored. John, the Doctor, had ignored.

John barely noticed as Sally Donovan ran past him, waving to get Lestrade’s attention. “Detective Inspector!” she shouted.

“Yes, Donovan?” Lestrade walked closer to her. Sherlock was standing just out of John’s range of senses, his body drawn up with his chin held high.

“We have a fresh one. Male, mid twenties. They think he may have jumped off of the roof of the hospital.” She grimaced, running a hand through her hair. “They want us over there ASAP to confirm.”

John’s mind was temporarily deafened by the roaring in his ears. Unable to even acknowledge the doctor’s voice in his ear, John thumbed his mobile off and ran over to Sally, grasping her arms. “Where?” Sally stared at him as if he had grown a new head. John resisted the urge to shake her, his eyes wide. “Where is he?”

“Three blocks away, not far at all.” John let go of her immediately and darted off, his feet slapping against the pavement as he ran. He didn’t bother waiting for Sherlock. He knew that as much as Sherlock loved him, he didn’t understand John’s devotion to his patients. Sherlock could rationalize why John did what he did - just could not, would not understand.

His mind was flashing through all the scenarios. Was it Eric? Was it not Eric? If it wasn’t Eric, who was it? Why was his heart thumping so fast? Forcing all the thoughts down, he checked the street sign and adjusted his course slightly. It wasn’t long before he saw the scene, the people, and he darted closer. Showing his credentials as a doctor was enough to allow him to get close to the scene to where he could see who it was.

John’s heart dropped in his chest, and the roaring was back. Aside from the bloody halo ranging out from his head, Eric’s face looked like he might just be sleeping. John knew he would never wake up. The stark black hair, worn just a bit too long, matted with blood. The eyes wide and unseeing. The broken way his arms and legs were arranged, as if everything was made out of china and had been dropped off a shelf. In a way, it had - except it had jumped.

He glanced back up at Eric’s face one last time. His stomach plummeted, seeing Sherlock’s face instead of Eric’s in that quick glance. John let out a painful moan, his legs buckling without hitting the ground. Looking up, he saw Sherlock’s face above him and realized it was the consulting detective’s arms supporting him. Trust Sherlock to not end up too far behind him. Lestrade and Sally were not far behind him. Lestrade was panting.

Scrabbling to grab onto as much of Sherlock as he could, John’s hands sought to touch, to feel, to make sure that Sherlock was alive and real and right there with him instead of that dead and broken body laying on the pavement not far from where they stood. The more rational part of him separated from the panicking creature he had become, advising him that he was starting to hyperventilate and that his body temperature and heart rate were increasing. The less rational part made a vulgar movement in its direction. Sherlock wrapped his arms more steadily around the shorter man, trying to calm the shaking. “I’m right here. I’m okay,” he murmured into John’s ear, his low voice soothing. John’s body gave a final convulsive shudder before he seemed to calm down just a notch. It was enough to turn in Sherlock’s arms to face Lestrade.

“Want to tell me what that was about, eh?” Lestrade asked, his hands briefly on his thighs to allow him to catch his breath. Donovan merely shot Sherlock a death glare. John surmised that, as usual, she viewed everything as Sherlock’s fault. John mutely shook his head even as Sherlock helped him back to his feet. His body was cold all over. Shock, John mused. The trembling, the shaking was coming next. The loss of control.

“You’ll want to call Dr. Aaron Meo,” he finally said. His voice was soft, stuttering, so unlike his normal tone that he could feel Sherlock frown.

“Who’s that?” Donovan came closer, peering at John. She had gone from shooting death glares at Sherlock to actually looking a bit concerned about John’s well-being.

“His doctor,” John answered finally. He could not meet her eyes - not hers, or Sherlock’s, or even Lestrade’s. He stared down at the pavement, focusing on the areas devoid of blood or chaos. “His name is Eric Simmons. He is - was - a patient in the oncology ward here. Aaron Meo is his doctor.”

Something in Sherlock’s posture changed, leading John to believe he had put together all of the puzzle pieces and discovered another trigger to John’s shift in behavior. He squeezed the arm he had put around John’s waist to help him, pressing his face into the crook in John’s neck, supporting him wordlessly. Abruptly, Sherlock let go of John, lingering briefly to make sure he could stand on his own. He looked up at Lestrade. “We’re leaving.”

“What? Sherlock, I need you to take another look at that lady back there!” Lestrade’s voice was a half-shout and Donovan was giving Sherlock a rather smug, irritated look.

“You should go, Sherlock.” John’s voice was more of a mumble than he would have liked, and he forced his posture straighter to hopefully dispel any and all worries Sherlock might have had. A cutting look from the pale blue eyes were all that it took to destroy his illusions and John let out a sigh.

“John is more important.” Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist and walked until they could hail a cab, leaving Lestrade gaping at their backs and Donovan wondering if they’d hallucinated the whole thing. The very real dead body not far from here partially dispelled the idea of an illusion, but Donovan was afraid that the Freak was turning all too human. Things like that were unnatural.

The cab ride to 221B Baker Street was silent and rather uneventful, except Sherlock refused to let go of John’s hand and had twined their fingers tightly together. Occasionally Sherlock would caress John’s hand with his thumb, causing John to twitch. Sherlock had never been the overly affectionate type, especially not in public. John gave him a sidelong glance, partially wondering if he had come down with something. That could possibly explain his behavior.

“I’m not sick,” Sherlock said quietly as he helped John out of the cab. He even paid the driver. John’s eyes narrowed even further and he gave his boyfriend a look up and down, even attempting a surreptitious check of Sherlock’s forehead. That earned him an eyeroll as Sherlock walked towards the door, using his key instead of waiting for John to dig his out. Manhandling John up the stairs, he pushed him towards the couch and helped him lay down. John stared at him suspiciously as Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom.

When Sherlock emerged, he had a small cloth in his hand. He reached over and laid it on John’s forehead. John flinched at the cold touch of the cloth and involuntarily shrunk away from it. Sherlock’s hand on his cheek was soothing. “It’s shock, John. Your heart rate has increased and you’re flushed. Probably tachycardic.” A finger traced small designs on John’s cheek as the shorter man relaxed into Sherlock’s ministrations.

After a few minutes, Sherlock removed the cloth, apparently satisfied with the change in John’s demeanor. He didn’t feel different. His mind was still a bit fuzzy. Processing what Sherlock had said about shock, things made a lot more sense. “It’s actually called an acute stress reaction,” he muttered automatically, shifting to become more comfortable on the couch. John could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes across the room.

John stiffened when he felt Sherlock’s arms underneath him. “I’m not an invalid, you know!” he protested, gripping Sherlock involuntarily as the taller man helped sit him up.

“I wasn’t going to carry you.” Sherlock looked a bit put-out at the idea. As if he would stoop to carrying John. John rolled his eyes and stood up, trying to straighten his jumper and jeans. He had sweated through the jeans but not through his jumper. For that, he was thankful - it was one of his favorites. John made small sounds of protest as Sherlock steered him towards the first floor bedroom.

“Mine is fine,” he argued, unable to resist Sherlock’s firm hand in the small of his back. Sherlock’s eye roll was exaggerated this time and John snorted in response.

With firm yet gentle hands, Sherlock undressed John and re-dressed him in simple, soft cotton pyjamas. The less coherent part of John wanted to protest. The more coherent part enjoyed this version of Sherlock - the caring, gentle version that only appeared in rare circumstances. Sherlock helped him onto the bed and under the covers, not bothering to tuck him in. Quickly Sherlock stripped and changed into his pyjama bottoms. John watched him languidly, enjoying his boyfriend’s lean body.

Lifting the covers, Sherlock scooted closer to John and gently tugged at him until John was half on top of him, one of his legs slotting between Sherlock’s. Long, supple fingers traced gentle, butterfly-light designs on John’s back and slowly he felt his body start to unwind.

John closed his eyes and flinched as the sight of Eric’s dead, unseeing body flashed into his mind. He felt Sherlock lean down and kiss the top of his head. John took solace in the contact. How Sherlock had known this was exactly what John needed he would never know. Although Sherlock thought himself distant, a sociopath, John had learned quite a bit about the mysterious man over the course of their relationship. Sherlock thought himself rubbish with relationships, but had learned to read John fairly well. The two had been together as a couple for over a year a half and were fast approaching two years. Unconsciously, John started to trace designs on Sherlock’s bare stomach.

“He was a patient of yours, wasn’t he?” Sherlock’s voice was gentle, and John paused his hand briefly before continuing to trail his finger across Sherlock’s bare skin.

“Yes.” John swallowed. Sherlock shifted slightly, settling them both into a position where Sherlock could lean down and nuzzle John if he felt like it. John felt Sherlock’s nose and lips press gently into his hair.

“Terminal cancer?” John looked up at Sherlock, seeing a hint of shame in his eyes. Although they were often described as icy, John saw no traces of Sherlock’s normally acerbic personality lingering there now.

“Yes,” he answered simply, looking away.

“I happened to see the text when it arrived on your mobile.” Sherlock coughed carefully, and John could feel his body stiffen ever so slightly. John’s finger trailed across Sherlock’s rippling abdominal muscles. John himself wasn’t surprised. He supposed he would have been surprised if Sherlock had not read the text message. The day Sherlock stopped sticking his nose into everyone else’s business was the day the world ended.

“He was just 27, Sherlock.” John’s body tensed, and then relaxed again as he exhaled slowly. “He had so far to go. He had overcome so much.”

“You feel powerless.” Sherlock’s fingers were threaded through John’s hair, stroking gently as he listened to John’s breathing. John nodded against Sherlock’s chest, ignoring the rasp of his barely-there stubble against Sherlock’s pale skin. Although canoodling was fun, this wasn’t the time.

“Who wouldn’t,” John muttered. “There was nothing I could do. It - it was like...”

“It was like Reichenbach, all over again,” Sherlock finished for him. John looked up at him, startled. “Oh come on John, even you must have noticed the similarities. Jumping off of a hospital. Not too different in age, or even general appearance.” Sherlock snorted.

John’s retort was cut off by the ringing of his mobile. Sherlock reached over, muttering something about lazy detective inspectors and answered with a curt hello. His eyes narrowed and he handed it to John. “It’s for you.”

“You okay, John?” Lestrade’s voice rang familiar in his ears, and John scowled at the bedding. He didn’t want to be talking to Lestrade.

“I suppose so. What do you need?” John shifted his position slightly away from Sherlock, allowing for a more comfortable positioning of the mobile.

“He left a letter. It’s addressed to you.” Lestrade’s voice made John’s mouth go dry and his hand started to shake a little. He felt Sherlock’s hand stroking through his hair again, calming and comforting.

“Text it to me, would you?” John was proud his voice didn’t shake. Barely hearing Lestrade’s affirmative, he hung up the mobile and slumped back against Sherlock.

He glanced up at Sherlock. “He probably needs you, you know.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You’re more important than the Work. There will always be Work. You might not always be around.”

John stared at him mutely for a few seconds before inching forward to plant a kiss on the dark haired man’s lips. The kiss was slow and gentle, their lips moving drowsily against each other’s as if they had all the time in the world. John broke it off after a bit and laid back against Sherlock’s side. “I love you, you know,” he murmured, his eyes starting to close. Now that the adrenaline was fading from his body, his body was protesting the day’s stress and activities and turning limp and uncooperative.

“I know.” Sherlock’s lips pressed into John’s hair. “I love you too.”

John smiled and drowsily drifted off to sleep.

To: John

Dr. Watson,

I am sorry. I can’t live like this. I know you’re going to try and blame yourself for it, but it’s not your fault. You helped me. You got me through the past four years. The past four years were amazing. I got to meet Amanda and fall in love and see what the future could be like. I got more time with my family. With my friends. Time I wouldn’t’ve had without you.

Cancer robbed me of that. That is not your fault. You didn’t know how the dice would roll, how things would play out.

I want to thank you. Despite what you might think, you were there with me in my final moments. You gave me the courage to take things into my own hands. I didn’t want a slow decline - I would rather go out on my own terms, and without much pain. You know that. You know me.

Please continue giving your patients - both past and present - the same gift you gave me. The courage to know that they can do what they didn’t think they can. That even if we may not live, we can still fly, whether it is in heaven or on Earth.

Thank you.

Eric


End file.
